


You Should See the Other Guy

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5431817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rival gang leaders in the same room - bruises and bites ensue, but probably not how you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Should See the Other Guy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teaDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/gifts).



> The inspiration for Thorin in this is from a particular art piece by radiorcrist that I cannot currently find, but just imagine biker Thorin with a leather jacket and long hair but an undercut on one side. If you get what I mean.
> 
> This is so late, I need to not procrastinate x_x I hope you like this teaDragon!

Thorin carefully shrugged out of his leather jacket, handing it to Balin. The older man had been wearing a disapproving look once Thorin had walked through the door and it deepened as he catalogued the visible injuries.

 

“What the fuck happened to you?”

 

“Nothing,” he muttered, not looking at Dwalin.

 

“Really? Could’ve fooled me, what with you _limping_.” Dwalin snorted. “But that’s just a tiny detail, isn’t it, not really important.”

 

Damn it. He hadn’t thought that’d been that obvious. When he glanced back, both of his cousins wore unimpressed expressions. Fine. Thorin squared his shoulders. “Fine. You remember that meeting Tharkûn made us attend last summer?”

 

“Aye,” Balin replied, drawing his thumbs along his belt. “That’s the one where you insulted the head of the Hobbits.”

 

“I didn’t insult him.”

 

“You compared the Thain to a _grocer_.”

 

“And that’s not necessarily an insult,” Thorin muttered, sullen. “But that’s not the point. I… stopped by Hobbiton earlier.”

 

Dwalin and Balin goggled at him; two seconds later the former cursed and the latter rubbed his face. “So you decided, apropos of nothing, to confront the leader of another gang without telling any of us.” Balin glanced at Dwalin, who had pinched the bridge of his nose and was apparently pretending he wasn’t there. “Next thing you’re going to tell us is that you went in barehanded.”

 

“Well… not quite…”

 

* * *

“Here’s my gun,” Thorin said, slowly bringing it out, checking that the safety was on before placing it on a table. He kept his movements deliberate. “And here’s my knife. That’s all I’m carrying.”

 

“I’m tempted to make a joke about your other guns,” Bilbo replied. He flexed his arms to elucidate.

 

“I’m glad you refrained.”

 

The grin he got in reply was unrepentant and attractive.

 

“Your turn.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes, you.”

 

“Why would you even think that I have a weapon?”

 

“Because I _know_ you.” He quirked his eyebrow. “And before you ask, no, I don’t trust you. Not one bit.”

 

Bilbo pulled a hurt expression; it didn’t work and he realised it. “Close your eyes.”

 

It was probably unwise that Thorin so readily obeyed. He heard rustles of cloth and quiet clinks of glass and metal. When Bilbo bade him open his eyes, he sounded closer than before, and indeed he was standing in front of Thorin, looking up at him through ridiculously pretty lashes.

 

“The famed Oakenshield,” Bilbo said archly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

 

“Oh, really?”

 

“People talk.”

 

“And what have ‘people’ told you?”

 

“That you are strong, ruthless… dangerous.” He bit his lip. “Very dangerous. I can’t help wondering what you’re going to do with me.”

 

“I have some ideas,” Thorin said, taking Bilbo into his arms and kissing him with a clash of lips and teeth.

 

* * *

“– and he picked me up.”

 

“Of course he did,” Primula said, grabbing the iodine bottle and ripping off a piece of cotton. “What possessed you to give up your weapons? Hardly anyone knows how you fight, you could’ve taken him by surprise.”

 

“It wouldn’t have been a fair fight.”

 

Hamfast smacked his forehead. “That’s the whole point.”

 

“Yes, but –” He broke off with a hiss.

 

“Serves you right.” Despite this sharpness, Primula gentled her touch. “What happened next?”

 

“Well, I grabbed that hair of his –”

 

* * *

Bilbo smiled when Thorin groaned into his mouth. He had a braid wound around the fingers of his right hand, and carded the nails of his left into the shorn hair on one side of Thorin’s head. He hiked himself further up in Thorin’s arms, legs locked around his body. God, he’d been wanting this all day.

 

So was Thorin, if Bilbo read him correctly, and he did. There was very little mistaking those noises and the particular desperation in his grip.

 

They separated for a moment, and when Thorin pressed forward again he was gentle and chaste. Their kisses were short, staccatos that gradually lengthened and melted into each other. Bilbo could hardly breathe but did not pull away, could not. He was giddy and dizzy, belly tight with emotion and lust.

 

In the end he wrenched away (somewhat unwilling, despite the need for air).

 

“You have a reputation yourself,” Thorin said over their harsh panting. “Clever and sharp. I don’t know if anyone’s called you dangerous – certainly not to me – but there are warnings not to underestimate you.”

 

“You learned that the hard way.”

 

“You can definitely say that.” When Thorin made the obvious pun, grabbing one of Bilbo’s hands and forcing it between their bodies and against his cock, Bilbo groaned – out of aggravation, sure, but because Thorin was holding him up with only one arm. His seemingly effortless strength was immensely… interesting.

 

When Bilbo gently squeezed his handful – which, truthfully saying, was more than a handful, really – Thorin groaned again. His arm tightened around Bilbo’s waist and –

 

* * *

“Well, at least you weren’t completely stupid.”

 

Thorin frowned. “How do you figure that?” he asked Dwalin, wary about being (even more) insulted.

 

“You used your height advantage. Because he is tiny. Must have been like picking up a kitten.”

 

Thorin wasn’t quite sure if kitten was a good descriptor. Sure, Bilbo had fluffy hair and a twitchy nose – and sure, he could (metaphorically) claw and (literally) bite when provoked. But kitten suggested a helplessness that did not fit with Bilbo’s personality.

 

Balin placed a glass in front of Thorin; scotch, two fingers, neat. He’d poured one for himself as well. “So you forced him against the wall…?”

 

* * *

“Fuck –” Thorin blinked away some of the haze of lust that’d fallen over his vision. “Are you alright?”

 

Bilbo shook his head even as he gently probed the probably-forming lump at the back of his head. He pushed back against the wall and curled his back, pressing his covered cock into Thorin’s solid frame. “Keep going.”

 

“Wait.” Thorin’s fingers tentatively combed through honey brown curls. “We can stop…”

 

“No, no, no.” He was actually whining; when Thorin laughed, Bilbo fixed him with a hazel-eyed glare. “I’ll not let you fuck me.”

 

“Who says I’m not the one that wants to be fucked?”

 

Bilbo’s nostrils flared. “Put me down.”

 

“No.” A vicious yank had Thorin wincing, even as his treacherous libido arched and purred. “Are you going to leave, if I let you go?”

 

“I can’t fuck you if I’m up against the wall. Idiot.”

 

That was an uncharitable suffix. “I want you up here a little longer. I like the view.” He leaned in and kissed the apple of Bilbo’s throat, meandering a line up his neck. “And there’s no need to rush. I’ve come prepared.” He nuzzled the angle of Bilbo’s jaw and murmured, “Literally.”

 

Bilbo was not gentle when he pulled Thorin’s head up by the braid in his hand, and he was even less gentle when he bit kisses into Thorin’s mouth.

 

* * *

Hamfast nodded. “That makes sense.” He was leaning against the countertop, waiting for the kettle to boil so he could start tea.

 

“What does?”

 

“Normally you wouldn’t have been able to punch him in the mouth, but since he’d lifted you against the wall…”

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Both of you are shorter than I am.”

 

“Neither of us is disputing that. But neither of us attempted to take on Thorin Oakenshield.” He was sure that Primula was aching to smack the back of his head but for the bump there. She’d muttered darkly about ‘concussions’ and ‘idiot cousins’, but this went ignored. “Please tell me you got in more hits than that.”

 

“What, you think I didn't end up on top?”

 

* * *

They’d ended up on the floor, with hastily pulled couch cushions to pillow Thorin’s head and prop his hips up. Bilbo looked down at him and thrilled at the sight.

 

Thorin was ninety-nine percent naked; his jacket was on the floor by his boots, his shirt had been thrown haphazardly over a lamp, his jeans were mostly off, hanging from one ankle, and… that was all. Apparently his ‘preparation’ had involved a lack of pants. Bilbo couldn’t say he was complaining.

 

And Thorin wasn’t complaining either. Bilbo was moving as quickly as he could, heart hammering and breath trying to keep up, his sweaty palms slipping on the equally sweaty skin of Thorin’s hips. Thorin’s teeth were digging into his already abused lip, muffling but not quite stopping the needy sounds streaming from him. Each one was in response to each thrust of Bilbo’s hips, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

 

Bilbo gasped when Thorin took himself in hand, clenching hard around Bilbo’s cock. He knew he wasn’t going to last much longer and so slipped a hand down over to join Thorin’s, trying to coax the other gangster’s orgasm before his own.

 

“Want to ride you.”

 

It took inhuman effort to stop himself coming just then. “Next time.” He wasn’t going to last long enough for a position change, not when Thorin was rocking his hips up to meet Bilbo’s thrusts, not when those pale blues were unfocused and that beautiful mouth was open and panting. “Next time I’ll –”

 

“F _uck_ – _fuck_ , Bilbo –”

 

* * *

“You could have easily won by collapsing on top of him and using your weight to hold him down, no problem.”

 

“He didn’t make it easy,” Thorin said testily, trying not to finger the split in his lower lip. “His elbows, they’re pointy.”

 

“Pointy,” Dwalin repeated.

 

“Pointy. And sneaky as well.”

 

“What, his elbows?”

 

“Don’t be stupid.” He finished his drink and sat back. Looked up at Dwalin and Balin. “Are you satisfied? Am I free of the interrogation?”

 

“From both of us.” Balin smiled. “You can explain your injuries to your brother and sister in your own time. They should be here in… two hours?”

 

Shit. He’d forgotten that he needed to meet them at the airport. “In which case, I’m leaving.” He needed to patch himself up and try to avoid as many questions as he could.

 

“You’d better change, as well. Your jeans’re ripped.” His cousin shook his bald, tattooed head. “And your belt isn’t even properly in the loops.”

 

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

 

“Considering that you sought out an enemy and fought them, I’m not as confident of that as you are.” There was an edge of teasing in Balin’s kind eyes that took the sting off that insult. “Dwalin and I can’t even figure out which one of you was supposed to have beat the other.”

 

“Depends on the beholder, I guess.” He got to his feet slowly, aches starting to grow in intensity and being all the more satisfying for it. He retrieved his leather jacket and shrugged it on. As he passed Balin and Dwalin, he finally said, “We both got some good blows in. Could’ve been anyone’s victory.”

 

And that was all he would say about it.

 

* * *

“So, um, how – did you enjoy it?”

 

“Yes. Er. Very much.” Thorin swallowed. “I’m sorry about your button.”

 

“At least you didn’t tear anything.”

 

“I think… my jeans can be fixed.”

 

“They can but it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.” They lapsed into silence again. “I… didn’t hurt you?”

 

“I rather think that knife fights and motorcycle accidents have done more damage.”

 

“No but… we went fast. I just hope that I wasn’t too… rough.”

 

“I wasn’t complaining.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Thorin’s voice dropped. “I’m not complaining.”

 

“ _Oh_.” Bilbo swallowed. “So, we… you’d be amenable to another…”

 

“Yes. And we can try slow and gentle. If you’re amenable.”

 

“I am. Most amenable.”

 

“How much time do we have? Are you expected back soon?”

 

He froze, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling before he groaned. “Yes, I am expected back. I _was_ expected back, about half an hour ago. And it’ll take another half hour to get to where I’m expected.”

 

Thorin swore. “How are we going to explain all this?”

 

After a small pause, Bilbo propped himself up on one elbow, grinning at Thorin in a way that was simultaneously foreboding and intriguing. Thorin couldn’t help but sit up himself and taste Bilbo’s lips before he could say anything.

 

Once Bilbo did say something – he had a plan, a way to hide all they had done without hiding them at all – Thorin marvelled at his ‘rival’ and kissed him again.

 

* * *

Primula put away her first aid kit. She looked like she was gearing up for a long lecture but was interrupted by her annoyingly-loud ringtone. Her expression was enough to tell them that who was on the other end of the line, and so her answer of “What is it now?” was not surprising.

 

Bilbo watched bemusedly as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

 

Hamfast laid a hand on his shoulder, concern in his wide face. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 

“I'm absolutely fine.” Bilbo grinned, sitting back and relishing the ache in his muscles, thinking of their plans for 'slow and gentle'. "Never better."


End file.
